


You Can Close Your Eyes (But That's Not Gonna Take Away the View)

by FiaMac



Series: Psycho Heroes [15]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Inception
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-09 05:09:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10404633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiaMac/pseuds/FiaMac
Summary: Eames loves Arthur... but can he really accept everything that Arthur is?"Eames has every confidence in the ace up Arthur’s sleeve, whatever that might be. His belief in Arthur is resolute."





	1. You're Only Spinning a Fable

**Author's Note:**

> Where we left off… after nearly a year spent exploring their relationship—with adoration, doubt, and great sex—Eames and Arthur finally confess their love for each other. Even celebrate the holidays together, with Arthur’s doting parents providing support and colorful commentary.
> 
> And life is good.
> 
> But not all doubts have been assuaged. Not all fears have been confronted.
> 
> Okay, here we go…
> 
> (set six months after Disarm)

_Offices of Gibson Incorporated_

_Belfast, Ireland_

 

Eames knows they’ve been double-crossed within seconds of waking, when the first sight to greet him is not Arthur’s eyes.

For the last year and a half, Arthur’s heavy gaze has greeted him at the end of every dream session. Always the first one in, first one out, the point man had enacted his role with excessive seriousness even before they became lovers. And now… well, Arthur’s protective tendency would probably be insulting if it weren’t so damned adorable.

So there’s only one reason why Arthur isn’t in his customary place, lending unnecessary assistance with Eames’s lead line. The fact that he’s standing in front of Eames’s chair, blocking his view of the room, speaks volumes about undesirable outcomes and untrustworthy clients.

“He awake, then? Get him over here.”

Speaking of untrustworthy.

Eames barely has time to unhook his IV before a lackey in a cheap suit drags him to his feet, standing him beside a visibly seething Arthur.

A second lackey with more freckles than skin tone has Arthur’s gun in his hand. He keeps the Glock trained on the space between them, though he watches Eames more carefully than Arthur. Mistake number one, there. Well, aside from screwing them over in the first place.

Suit Lackey divests Eames of both the gun at his back and the one holstered at his ankle but misses the knife on the other leg. Second mistake.

Two more stern-faced goons are carrying the mark out of the conference room. The man—a high profile councillor—is still sedated and hangs limp in their arms, but no one seems concerned with appearances. They feel secure in their control of the situation.

Eames slants a look towards Arthur, using the opportunity to assess that he isn’t hurt in any way—just furious. “Looks like you win the bet, love.”

Arthur snorts, his expression unchanged. “Don’t I always?”

“Shut it, both of you.”

Ryan Gibson, their employer for this particular jaunt, stands safely out of striking range. A smug-faced, soft-bellied fat cat in his fifties, Gibson doesn’t immediately present as the kind of man versed in calculated murder. But the triumphant spark under those thick brows tells Eames that this isn’t Gibson’s first trip around the dancefloor.

Gibson had hired them to sneak into the mind of the rising star of North Ireland’s political scene in search for blackmail material. Clichéd and banal, it should have been a quick in-and-out job, easy to pull off with just the two of them and minimal fanfare. And Gibson had offered a sizable sum for the info.

Ryan Gibson… a new face in the dreamshare scene, the type of client that believes a large enough bankroll will open any door he points at. He had demanded the best and was willing to pay for it, which was enough to gain him Arthur’s email address.

But Arthur doesn’t offer up unconditional service for any price. And halfway through the prep work, he said something had felt “off” about the job.

Eames has lived a relatively long time—with exceptional success—in an impossible career largely due to Arthur’s professional instincts. If Arthur says “jump,” Eames is crashing out the window and halfway to the ground before he thinks to check if he’s dreaming or not. Because Arthur never takes avoidable chances with other people’s lives, especially those he considers under his care, and will have already calculated the odds of a soft landing before giving the command.

So when Arthur stated his misgivings about Gibson’s intentions, Eames had been ready to cut their losses and catch the next plane off the island. It wasn’t like either of them really needed the money.

Arthur was the one who wanted to stay, to see the job through. _Professional aesthetic_ , he’d claimed. Had said, “I’ll take care of it.”

That was all Eames had needed to hear then. Even now, with no obvious recourse, Eames has every confidence in the ace up Arthur’s sleeve, whatever that might be. His belief in Arthur is resolute.

Gibson gives them a little self-assured smile. “Thank you, gentlemen, for your services. I’m afraid I won’t be needing them anymore.”

“You know, it would have been easier to just pay us,” Arthur says. He keeps his hands loose at his sides, projecting his intention to cooperate with the nice thugs holding guns. But his demeanor is anticipatory, not cowed.

Gibson’s tone is all oily condescension. “You’ve already given me the information I need. Why waste the money?”

Third mistake. Eames is almost enjoying this.

Arthur smiles back. It’s not a good smile. “Aidan.”

The smarmy confidence drops right off Gibson’s face. “How do you know that name?” he growls.

“My phone is in my jacket,” Arthur tilts his head towards the blazer hanging off the chair behind him. “There’s someone you should talk to.”

Gibson points a long finger in Arthur’s face. “Don’t fuck with me, boy. You’re not running this little freak show anymore.” He tries to stare Arthur down, but Arthur has that belittling expression on his face that beautifully conveys his disdain for dealing with amateurs.

“Your loss,” he says, voice hard.

Gibson chews on his lip for a second before gesturing at Suit Lackey. Eames can’t stop himself from tensing all over when the man crowds Arthur’s space to retrieve the jacket, ham fists crumpling the fine gray silk as he paws the phone out of the inside pocket.

Arthur never takes his gaze from Gibson. “Speed dial three,” he directs.

Gibson takes the phone from Suit Lackey and considers Arthur for a long minute. Then he sneers and presses the button, putting the call on speaker. It picks up in the middle of the first ring.

_“Arthur, what’s the status?”_

Eames doesn’t recognize the voice. He can tell the man on the other end is Australian and a former chain smoker, but it’s no one he’s acquainted with.

“Who is this?” Gibson asks.

_“Fuck you, buddy. Who are you? Where’s Arthur?”_

Gibson gives Arthur the go ahead to respond. He doesn’t look happy about it.

“I’m here,” Arthur says, voice bland and businesslike.

_“Status?”_

“Unharmed, but my client has changed the terms of our agreement.”

“Enough of this shit. What have you done with Aidan?”

_“Arthur?”_

“Tell him.”

 _“Well, Irish, it’s like this. That man you’re threatening doesn’t trust you none. Hired me to keep an eye on your boy. Just in case, you understand. Nice kid, by the way. Be a real shame.”_ The threat is left hanging in the air.

Eames draws a slow breath. Years of experience prevent him from showing any of the shock ringing underneath his skin, but it’s a struggle to keep his reaction at bay. This isn’t a tactic Arthur’s deployed before. Not to his knowledge, anyway.

Gibson goes pale, then red, breathing hard. “How do you even know about him? Nobody knows he’s my son.”

Arthur just looks back, implacable. “You really should have just paid us the money.”

Gibson turns his attention back to the phone. “What have you done to him?”

_“Nothing, yet. That’s on you. See, here’s how it goes. If Arthur doesn’t give me the all-clear within an hour, the kid becomes a tragedy. Oh, and, sidebar—you kill or hurt his man Eames there in any way, and the kid’s a goner regardless of what else happens. And it won’t be clean.”_

This time Eames cuts his gaze over to Arthur, surprised to be stated explicitly as a condition of their release. And horrified to be the lynchpin of some boy’s survival.

He searches Arthur’s face for a sign that the threat against Gibson’s kid is just a distasteful bluff. A nasty bit of overemphasis. The two of them are masters of their art, after all. Pioneers of the field, and all that rot. This isn’t the kind of thing they need to resort to. Except Arthur gives nothing of his thoughts or feelings away, the calm lines of his body language projecting quiet readiness. To most people, he’d be unreadable.

But Eames knows Arthur better than anyone.

 

 


	2. I Know What You Are

 

Gibson stares Arthur down, face shifting as different emotions cycle through. Fear. Rage. Guilt. “You son of a bitch.”

 _“Your move, Irish.”_ The voice on the phone is blithe, indifferent to the power struggle being waged.

“Prove you have him.”

_“Happily.”_

The call disconnects. Seconds later, the phone buzzes in Gibson’s hand, indicating an incoming message. He hits the icon with a shaking finger. Eames catches only a glimpse of the short video, a brief impression of a teenage boy with dark curls.

He shivers as the hairs on his arms rise up.

Two minutes ago, he didn’t even know this kid existed. And now… now the boy’s fate is intertwined with his in a way that promises to damage something precious within him. Even if the kid lives, this is something that can’t be undone. It can’t be unknown.

And it’s all Arthur’s fault. Arthur did this to him. To them.

Eames swallows back the acid in his throat.

Arthur walks over and plucks the phone out of Gibson’s hand. “Show’s over. Give me the gun.”

Freckled Lackey shifts uncertainly. “Sir?”

“Do as he says,” Gibson spits.

Arthur takes the weapon from Freckles, never breaking his gaze with Gibson’s hate-filled eyes. “Eames.”

Eames flinches. “Right.”

He divests Suit Lackey of the man’s gun and pats the three men down, retrieving his own weapons and Arthur’s switchblade. Next, he gathers up their belongings while Arthur keeps his gun on Gibson. The PASIV is quickly packed up, Arthur’s messenger bag slung over his own shoulder. “Ready,” he says and hands Arthur his jacket.

“And now?” Gibson growls.

Arthur lowers the gun. “Now we walk away. You keep your money. We keep the information we extracted. Stop us, your son dies. Try to find us, your son dies. Understood?”

The words are like gunshots in a canyon, cracking through the static buzz filling Eames’s head.

Gibson glowers back. “Get the hell out of my sight.”

Eames lets Arthur lead the way out of the room. Encumbered with the heavy bag, his reaction time is slightly compromised, and they don’t know what resistance they might encounter.

Arthur cuts a quick path through a maze of offices and cubicle warrens, and their clipped pace and business attire blends in with the busy workday atmosphere. They bypass the elevators and hurry down fire stairs without notice.

Things are a bit more tense once they hit the main lobby. Men in security uniforms have already started filtering into the space, taking up positions around the fringes. A grim-looking chap wearing a suit and an earpiece stands by the reception desk. It’s obvious that he’s reporting back every move they make as he tracks their progress through the lobby with a glare.

No one challenges their exit, but Eames doesn’t relax until they’re out the door and in the rental car, making an expedient getaway to Belfast International.

Eames keeps an eye out for pursuers, but mostly he observes Arthur. There are some lingering lines of anger around his mouth, a rigid cast to his shoulders, but these signs of stress aren’t unique from any other time a job’s gone wrong. They don’t measure up to the icy ball of pressure building inside Eames’s gut.

He tries to convince himself it had all been a bluff. Because Eames may have been a soldier, may have spent the last decade rubbing elbows with criminals and deviants of many natures, but Arthur has always been something different. Something much more dangerous and… brutal.

Eames will never blame Arthur for the things he did, the person he was, while under the CIA’s control. Especially not after learning more about the price Arthur has paid for those years. But he believed—had let himself believe—that Arthur had put those parts of himself aside. He thought Arthur wanted to be… better. Maybe not _good_. Neither of them can ever be good men. But there has to be a limit, doesn’t there? There must be rules that a person lives by, or else what’s the point of anything?

He wants to believe it was only bluff. That Arthur would never go to certain levels, never cross impassable lines. But he knows Arthur better than anyone.

“You knew he was going to jack us.”

Arthur’s brows drop into a scowl, yet his voice is level when he replies, “I _suspected_ he might.”

“We should have just bagged the job.”

“I wasn’t sure. You’re always saying I’m paranoid. No sense getting hysterical over supposition.”

“But sense enough to hire a hitman. On supposition.”

“I keep Noah on retainer.”

Eames barks an ugly laugh. “Jesus, you’re not even joking.” He fidgets with his shirt cuff, yanks it up to look at his watch. Twenty-three minutes to go. “You going to call it in?”

“When we’re clear.”

“We’ve got this, Arthur. Call it in.” The words are a demand, not a suggestion.

Arthur slants him an indecipherable look for a long moment before pulling out his phone. “Noah. Yeah, we’re clear. Proceed as scheduled.” He grunts in response to something said and hangs up without another word.

Eames drums his fingers on the center console. It’s only then that he becomes aware of how his weight is shifted to the far side of the seat, leaning against the car door and away from Arthur. Watching Arthur.

He forces himself into a more neutral position, eyes forward on the road. He knows he needs to proceed with care, knows things could go very wrong, very quickly if he isn’t cautious. But it’s so hard to stay calm when it feels like something inside of him is breaking. “And what’s on the schedule, then?”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Arthur’s hand clench around the steering wheel.

“Gibson is a threat. The fear of reprisal will hold him for a short while, but his pride will force him to act eventually.”

“So your hitman is going to pay him a visit.”

“It’s necessary. You know that.”

Eames doesn’t respond right away. Yes, it’s necessary, now that things have escalated as they have. Arthur is right about Gibson eventually seeking retribution, and a time or two Eames has pulled the trigger himself when a client became too dangerous to leave alive. But that had always been in the moment, the unavoidable outcome of bad luck and poor decisions. What Arthur is doing… it’s _practical_. Premeditated. And it makes him ill to know that he’s complicit in Arthur’s sins.

So yeah, maybe he _knows_. Doesn’t mean he _understands_. “Why the kid?”

“Gibson is locked pretty solid. Current wife is just a trophy, and the relationship with his ex-wife is sketchy at best. No other family of importance. Any potential scandals wouldn’t have been enough to hold him. Finances too well protected. The son is the only thing he holds sacred.”

The matter-of-fact rundown is too much for Eames. The cold swirling in his stomach pushes outward like threads of ice, glacial water in his veins. “You know that’s not what I’m saying.”

Arthur gives him another swift look as he brings the car to a stop and kills the engine. “Let’s go.”

Eames swears as Arthur effectively slams the car door in his face. He hadn’t noticed that they were already at the airport. He hops out and chases Arthur around to the boot of the car. “Hell, Arthur, if you’re going to kill Gibson anyway, why not just lead with that? We could have fought our way out.”

Arthur flicks him a quelling glare. “Too risky. And keep your voice down.”

They stash their weapons and the PASIV, in exchange for two carry-on bags with basic necessities. Ever since the Tangier cock-up, they’ve had an actual procedure for when jobs go bad, and Eames knows someone will come around later to retrieve the car and its contents.

 _More of Arthur’s meticulous contingency planning_ , he thinks sourly as Arthur rifles through a stack of passports and pre-printed boarding passes. A variety of flight times and locations, a variety of names. He selects two and tosses the rest in the boot before locking everything up and leading the way into the airport.

They go through security separately, and Eames takes the opportunity to grapple with his emotions. Betrayed, largely. He feels betrayed, even though that doesn’t entirely make sense. He doesn’t understand why Arthur’s threat against Gibson threatens _him_. Arthur would never hurt him. Not knowingly. But can he live with Arthur’s actions? Can he forgive them?

Eames doesn’t have the answers. Or, more truthfully, he’s afraid of what the answers will prove to be.

He should drop it. Let it be swept under the rug with all the other unsightly debris from the darker parts of their lives. And yet, this time, he can’t. Some hindbrain instinct drives him to scratch at this, to dig in until some half-realized conclusion becomes inevitable.

Even if it leaves them both raw and bleeding.

 


	3. ...And It's Scaring Me To Death

 

Arthur is waiting for him at the departure gate for the next flight to New York. Boarding begins in two minutes. It’s not enough time to have the conversation he needs to have. Then again, maybe it’s too much time.

Arthur is on his phone, thumbs flying across the screen, and doesn’t look up when Eames drops his bag at their feet. “This is you,” Arthur tilts his head towards the gate. “I’ll be a few hours behind you, coming from Orlando. You’ve got the coordinates to the safe house in New York. I’ve texted you the security code.”

Eames sighs. “Arthur, wait.”

“I’ve made arrangements. By the time you’re through customs, the flight manifest and airline records will have been altered. You’ll be home free.”

“Stop it. Look at me.”

Instead, Arthur starts to turn away. “We don’t have time for this. We’ll meet—”

“Arthur, stop.” Eames grabs his elbow and forces him back around. “What the bloody hell was that back there?”

Arthur finally looks at him, eyes simmering with impatience. “I told you I’d take care of things, so that’s what I did.”

Eames shakes his head. “Don’t pull that card with me, mate. Not with me.”

“I ensured our safety, that’s all. We needed leverage. I found it, and I used it.”

And that’s a red light for Eames, that right there. Because, yes, he knows Arthur, knows what the man is willing to kill or die for. And Arthur would never murder a child for his own sake. But to protect someone he loves?

Eames isn’t new to the idea that Arthur would go to great lengths in order to protect him. The only question, there, is how far down he would have to go to find Arthur’s point of no return.

And, with the painful clarity of just how sharp Arthur’s edges really are, Eames has to ask himself, is he willing to stand close enough to cut himself on those edges?

There’s a reason why he left London. A reason why he took himself off the frontlines, deserted the military, and avoided personal entanglements until Arthur made it impossible to keep his distance. And, despite everything between them, those reasons haven’t changed. Eames doesn’t want to carry the responsibility of Arthur’s morality. Doesn’t want to open himself up if it means embracing this menace, this reflection of the worst parts of his own nature—a man that chooses survival no matter what cost to his soul.

Betrayal gives way to fury. How dare Arthur put this burden on him?

_“Flight 502 to New York. Now boarding. 502-New York.”_

Eames drops his voice to a quiet hiss. “The _leverage_ , as you so charmingly put it, is an innocent boy that has nothing to do with this. But you’ve put him in the crosshairs anyway.” He watches the tiniest wince roll across Arthur’s face and latches onto that crack in the stubborn façade. “And for _what?_ A job we didn’t even need?” _How could you do this to us_ , he wants to scream. To plead.

Arthur pulls his shoulders back tight. “We’re not talking about this here,” he tries to assert, but Eames just crowds in close until he can stare Arthur in the eyes from mere inches away.

“You threatened to have a kid tortured and murdered. Worse yet, you made me a part of it. And don’t tell me you wouldn’t have gone through with it because I saw your face. You would have let it happen. If they hadn’t let us go, you would have done it.”

If Eames thought that Arthur would be demurred by the accusation, he’s quickly reminded that the man he fell in love with cows to nothing. Arthur doesn’t back down. He matches Eames gaze for gaze, impatience bleeding into temper. “If it came to that, yes,” he states baldly. As if the words don’t hurt to say. Don’t hurt to hear.

“What the fuck, Arthur. Since when are those rules of engagement acceptable for you?” _This isn’t how love is supposed to be._

Arthur’s eyes narrow. “I will do anything necessary to keep you safe. _Anything_. You really going to act like this is news to you?”

“This? Yes, I can honestly say _this_ catches me by surprise,” Eames spits, waving at the tension-fraught space between them. Jesus Christ, his hands are shaking. He takes a step back and folds his arms across his chest.

“Then you haven’t been paying attention.”

“Oh, trust me. My eyes have been wide open. I just assumed you had limits to how far you’d go. I thought I already knew what those limits were.”

Arthur blows out a frustrated breath. “Jesus Christ, Eames. Is this about Heinrich?”

“No. Maybe.”

“Because I asked you,” Arthur leans in, voice rising. “I told you to be sure. Before we—you said yes.”

“Yeah, I know I—look, you can’t just—” Eames darts a look around the busy terminal. A few people seem to be aware of the quiet drama occurring in their midst, but most of the travelers and airport employees are preoccupied with their own issues.

Still, Eames pulls in the slippery edges of his control. Because this might be the most important conversation of his life, and he’s already fucking it up. “You can’t put that on me. I said yes to you in my bed. To meeting your parents, sharing guns and closet space. Not… this.” Anger swiftly drains away with each word, leaving him carved out and helpless.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

_“Final boarding, flight 502-New York. Final boarding.”_

Silence falls between them, heavy and abrupt. With every passing second, Eames feels increasingly adrift, ripped from his moorings by his own hand. He doesn’t know how to get past this. So often, he takes his cues from Arthur, lets the other man guide him through these waves of doubt. And he doesn’t know what to do when that’s no longer an option.

He tries to hold eye contact, to keep some measure of connection alive, but Arthur stares just past his shoulder even as he bites his next words out. “ _This_ is _me_ , Eames. This is something that’s… that’s in me. I thought you knew that. I thought you understood.”

“I thought I did, too, pet. But I…” he trails off, shoulders curling forward.

Arthur’s eyes finally snap back to his. “Bullshit,” he fires back. “Don’t try to tell me you’re surprised. You’ve never been that naïve. It’s not like we met in a bar or some shit. You know what I am. You’ve known from the start.”

“Maybe so. But I never intended to be in love with it,” Eames says despite himself, and he watches the words rip through like a maelstrom.

Christ, the look in Arthur’s eyes… Eames knows he’ll be haunted by that look for the rest of his life.

“And can you?” Arthur’s words are quietly spoken, but Eames can still hear their faint tremor.

He wants to double over in pain, in shame. _What am I doing? What have I done?_ He shakes his head. “Don’t.”

But Arthur presses on, his face rigid with anticipation. “Can you love me, like this? Knowing this?”

Realization hits Eames, breaks through the remaining shields of denial, pulling him under and stealing his breath. He can’t answer. Yes or no, neither feels like the pure truth. Either will leave something inside him shattered and bleeding. Whether he sides with a conviction that’s fundamental to his sense of self… or loyalty to the only person that’s ever really loved him… he doesn’t know how to make this choice.

Yes or no, he can’t see a way out of this that won’t destroy them in the end.

Eames knows he’s quiet for too long. He measures the time by the emotion that gradually leaches away from Arthur’s gaze. Can see the walls going up around, within him. He has to say _something_ , now, before he loses his chance to say anything. But he can’t find the words to stop this, to turn them in a different direction. “Arthur…”

“Fine.” Athur’s voice is emptied of all feeling and laden with finality.

Panic crawls up Eames’s throat, hot and sour. He leans closer, hoping to convey without words that he’s sorry, he doesn’t want this, just wants to rewind the day or even fast-forward to a time when they can be past this. But Arthur takes a deliberate step away, leaving him cold and drowning. “Arthur.”

 _“Last call for boarding, 502 to New York.”_             

Arthur looks back at him, unmoved. “We stick to the plan. For now. Rendezvous in New York.”

He can’t breathe. It’s getting harder and harder to think. “Don’t do this. Not like this. We’re not done talking.”

“We'll talk about it in New York.”

Not like this. It’s not what he—not the way he wanted. He doesn’t know what he wants, what he was trying to do, but he’s unwilling to believe it’s _this_. “Arthur.”

“Just get on the plane, Eames.”

Because _this_ is unbearable.

And the only clear thought that occupies his mind as Eames makes his way on board, as he sits through the ten-hour flight in complete stillness… is how quickly Arthur had walked away from him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up in the Psycho Heroes series: "My Heroes All Became Psychotics" coming (hopefully) soon.

**Author's Note:**

> Story and chapter titles from the song "On the Table" by Floater.
> 
> And a special nod to IAmANonnieMouse, who said, "In _Fall,_ Eames notices Arthur's cold detachment and worries because Arthur hasn't been like that--*they* haven't been like that--for quite a while (at least as far as Eames is aware). But reading this again, it made me think Arthur pulls out that other part of him when it's *for* Eames, like after the mark shot Eames in the knee in _Fall,_ and *that* made me wonder how Eames would feel if/when he realizes this is the case."
> 
> I'm excited to finally be able to answer this. Let the drama unfold...
> 
> Look for the [Psycho Heroes Soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/user/qvxh3o4rvca6soodo82lagqt8/playlist/2TOcGz53b6ONaVS8Q3gIGZ) on Spotify!


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